DayNight
by JetNoir
Summary: After the Revenant murders, on enforced leave, Clarice Starling is brutally attacked. What she finds is that she must stick to the shadows of night, to avoid a killer straining towards the light of day...
1. Monday

**Note:** First off, this story is a sequel to Lessons, but due to the wonderful idea of Penelope S Cartwright, I am currently writing a prequel as well, based on the back-story of Lilia Derevko; as well as a shorter story focusing on Hannibal…so this could end up getting very confusing…(and today is my first anniversary as a fanfic author!).

**DAYNIGHT**

**a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir**

MONDAY

(d a y)

When the plane eventually landed in Chicago, it was raining, and that seemed to fit Clarice Starling's mood perfectly. She was sad, and heartbroken. She was betrayed.

Collecting her scant luggage proved no problem, and soon she was in a taxi – all paid for by the seeming benevolent Federal Bureau of Investigation. Clarice knew different. She knew what could happen, when it turned against you.

She had barely scraped back to her former position, and now the probation was over, she could put the whole sorry mess behind her. Revenant was dead. Lilia was dead. But the memory lingered.

It had felt so natural for her to work as part of a team, so…right. It hadn't worked out, and she remembered the bitter arguments and recriminations that had raged – Clarice hell-bent on blaming herself, Matt and Elias…

So she had taken leave. Or rather, had been _made_ to take leave. A simple matter – considering the events. Dr Hannibal Lecter had been right. She had learnt the lesson…and wondered whether she would ever be able to trust anyone again.

The taxi turned into her hotel. Expensive and luxurious. She was glad she didn't have to pay the bill.

'_Don't worry about the cost. You need some time to relax.'_

Director Tunberry had been so understanding. _So_ understanding in fact that she had known instantly it had been false. Not for her well being. To find out what went wrong. They wanted her out the way. It was understandable, but not helpful.

The room was nice, but Starling, albeit tired, was restless. She had to get out and away, to fly.

Chicago wasn't called the windy city for nothing, and Clarice was glad that she had wrapped up warmly. It was strong today, and so she was especially careful. She was on standby still. That was a blessing.

She'd turned down the next street when her mobile phone started to ring, so, sighing, she picked it out of her pocket, and held it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Clarice, it's Matt. I'm just ringing to see how you are."

"I'm fine Matt. Really. The Bureau thought I needed time…but you and I both know, it's them that need time. The time to analyse our taskforce and found out who screwed up."

"Yeah. Not really much I can add to that, is there?"

"What about this news regarding Lecter."

"Slater and Irons are fine, and in position. I'm not allowed to tell you where."

"Irons? They sent Elias? What about you?"

"Too old apparently. Just my luck."

"You know, you probably are lucky. Knowing the FBI's record Slater and Irons won't last too long. A sickening thought, but the only person who ever got halfway close was Will Graham…and that was only because Lecter let him…and then grew a little too arrogant. Look at him now though. He's burned out. It's tragic."

"Look Clarice, I have to go. Take care of yourself, and I'll talk soon. Okay. Bye."

It was when Starling put the phone back in her pocket when all hell broke loose.

-

"MURDERER!"

Clarice twisted at the world, to be knocked backwards, hitting her head on the floor. Her vision went into a blur, as she felt her face being struck once, twice. She moaned, and tried to wrestle the assailant off, but he was too strong.

His breath, warm in her earlobe, his voice, a thousand daggers shooting into her skull:

_"Murderer…don't think this is the end. I will make you suffer…It has begun!"_

The weight was suddenly lifted, and she heard the sound of running feet.

"You okay?" a new voice, frantic with concern, "Jesus Christ, I'll call for an ambulance."

The confusion lasted another minute, before Clarice Starling sunk into uneasy, blissful unconsciousness.

(n i g h t)

When Starling awoke, it was to the anaesthetic odour of a hospital. The nurse, seeing Clarice's eyes open, went for a doctor.

The doctor, when he came, was very nice, explaining to her that she had been attacked. He then explained that she had a mild concussion, but due to the fact she was FBI, he would be willing to release her to FBI medical for observation. Clarice was grateful that he was kind enough to ring the local FBI office, and within the next hour, the head of FBI Chicago was sitting at her bedside.

"We've interviewed all the witnesses, and all their stories match," said District Director Vaughn, "you were attacked by a figure, who is believed to be male, due to body structure, but was masked."

"It was what he said to me," said Clarice, "_'Murderer…don't think this is the end. I will make you suffer…It has begun!'_ It makes no sense. Did he confuse me for someone else?"

"We don't think so…we believe that he specifically targeted you for some reason…and it's that we need to find out."

"The doctor said something about releasing me. Can I go back to the hotel?"

"Yes…we're setting up an emergency taskforce, in case the threat is real, in the room next to yours. We'll protect you."

"I'm not hiding," said Clarice.

"Nor are we asking you too. But we're going to have to be cautious. We don't know what's going on, and we'd rather be safe than sorry."

"Thankyou," said Clarice, and District Director Vaughn nodded.

Everyone was nervous as they made their way, in a small convoy back to the hotel, but nothing happened. It was almost as if it had never happened, Clarice felt that everything seemed distorted, and twisted. Everything felt strange.

She felt safer with the taskforce next-door, but found that she was so tired, she climbed into bed, without changing her clothes, and fell into a pitiful sleep.

* * *

**Note:** Next chapter should be along shortly, hoped you enjoyed it, and please review!

**Disclaimer: **Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page without my express written permission. Thankyou!

**JetNoir**


	2. Tuesday

**Note:** Right, very strange goings on. As I've sort of ruled out a brother of Lilia's in Her Burning Heart (but _very_ cool idea Penelope! (actually, wish I'd thought of it!)) so who is the mysterious attacker? Please read on!

**DAYNIGHT**

**a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir**

TUESDAY

(d a y)

The bloody woodpeckers refused to stop rapping on Clarice Starling's head. They circled her, and as she woke up out of the strange dream, the rapping continued. It was the door.

Straightening the wrinkled clothes, she rolled off the bed and walked to the door, finger-combing her hair. Opening the door, she saw District Director Vaughn.

"Good morning Agent Clarice," he said, his large eyes concerned, "I have something for you. A letter. It's been sweeped at the field office – it was hand delivered to the hotel some time last night. Negative, on chemical; biological; mechanical; and nuclear." Clarice raised an eyebrow;

"Nuclear?"

"Yes," said Vaughn, "may I come in?"

"Of course," said Clarice, "can I offer you a drink?"

"A cup of tea?" asked Vaughn.

"Sure."

"Thankyou."

After putting the electric kettle on, she sat on the edge of the bed, and turned her attention to the letter. It had been opened, and she presumed, dusted for fingerprints. Vaughn confirmed this.

The letters of the first words were in a simple hand, uncomplicated, yet clear. He or she was intelligent. It read:

For the attention of Special Agent Clarice Starling, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

She withdrew the letter, opened its folded pages, and began to read.

_Special Agent Starling,_

_How do I begin to describe my contempt for you? I do not wish this to sound petty, or vengeful…and yet bitchiness may be all I can suggest._

_You are a murderer Special Agent Starling. It is a simple as that. The FBI female agent who has shot and killed the most people. Not killed – murdered. Not people – victims._

_You are a monster, not fit to live with the people of good. You deserve darkness; you are not fit to see the light of day._

_Therefore I will deem the terms of your INCARCERATION. I do this not lightly, but out of a respect for the ones you have slaughtered. Therefore…you may not leave the hotel under light of day. When you have left Chicago, the Chosen will follow you. The Chosen are relentless. You may never see the light of day again, for you must remain indoors. When the sun sets…you will be temporarily reprieved._

_Do not try to find us. You know what would entail if you did._

_You deserve misery. You deserve incarceration. We are your gaolers. I wish you pleasant nights, and tedious days._

**_The Chosen._**

"What is this?" snarled Clarice, angry, "Who does this person think he is?"

"Serious?" said Vaughn, "A crank? Could be either. I thought it would be better if I told you. I don't know how you would find this. Your friendly neighbourhood taskforce is right next-door, and they're tracing it as we speak. This is strange."

"It's rubbish," said Clarice, as she strode past Vaughn. Vaughn followed, almost chasing her down the stairs of the hotel.

"Are you sure?" asked Vaughn, "We have FBI patrolling the hotel, but still."

"I don't care," Clarice said, "I will not be threatened. I refuse to be frightened by a single note!" They were in the lobby now, and people were staring at the raised voices. The sun was bright, but the wind was gusting through the open door, and Clarice felt the cold against her skin.

She walked into the light, and smiled triumphantly.

"See-" but her words were cut off prematurely, as five gunshots boomed out, and she saw five large holes open in the stonewall beside her. Vaughn reached out and grabbed her collar, pulling her backwards into the lobby, while simultaneously drawing his own firearm, and firing in the direction of the shooter. All civilians in the immediate area had dropped to the floor.

Sprawled on the floor, Starling looked up, shocked. "What the hell is this?" she cried, "Why is someone shooting?" Vaughn ducked back into the lobby, as Federal Agents poured towards the shooter.

"Stay down!" he said to Starling, then reaching into his pocket he drew a walkie-talkie, and spoke into it rapidly; "What's going on? Speak to me Saunders."

"Nothing sir," said Saunders, over the com, "the shooter's disappeared. We have agents in pursuit, and I require forensics."

"Done," said Vaughn, "contact me via the taskforce."

"Damn," said Starling, "so it looks like I was wrong. What are we going to do?"

"We have to keep you isolated…and indoors; at least temporarily. We could do with your help on analysis. It's boring, but necessary."

"What about night? It said I could go out at night."

"Yeah…if you're willing to risk it, I'll give you guards. For now, let's see what we can find."

--

Unknown location, somewhere in Chicago

"Is this really what we want? Can we do this?"

"We have to. For the sake of us all. For the sake of those innocent."

--

Time is a precious thing. When lost, it can never be regained…and perhaps that is the intention for Special Agent Starlings pseudo-captors. It is a dangerous plight.

As the sun sets, and the wind begins to pick up over Chicago, the danger sets. Once called a 'Death Angel', Clarice Starling seems to have been metamorphosed into a vampire…albeit without the blood.

Mind you, there are more than a few people who believe that the blood part is perhaps more real than the American Government lets on…

(n i g h t)

The FBI were swarming the buildings around the hotel, all edgily waiting for the appearance of Agent Starling. They had received an anonymous tip-off earlier in the day, which Clarice had been analysing carefully, hunched over a computer screen. It had been a boring task…but one which was vital.

Snipers lined every rooftop, all sweeping the streets. Slowly, the doors of the hotel opened, and Clarice Starling strode defiantly out, three agents flanking her. She paused a brief moment, as if any daring man (or woman) to kill her.

Satisfied that no one came, she continued on the pre-determined road. Nobody came, and she wasn't stopped by any of these so-called 'The Chosen'.

Starling's destination was a bar…not one of ill repute, but a family run establishment. She'd been told to sit at a certain table, at a certain time, and this informant would come.

But nothing was destined to happen this night.

After waiting some hours, and drinking a few glasses of wine, absolutely nothing happened.

A false tip off, possibly by The Chosen to keep her out of trouble for the night.

She sighed bitterly, at the wasted time, as she was escorted back to the hotel. Nothing. They should have checked it first.

When she arrived at the hotel, Vaughn came up to her, but she brushed him off, and went to her room.

It didn't take her long to fall asleep, which was pitiful and troubled.

But the wasted night was not as wasted as she might have first thought.

Some believe that dreams might hold the key.

If so…Clarice's dreams were haunted by a lonely spectre.

Lilia Derevko.

* * *

**Note: **Okay-dokey, the next chapter should be up fairly shortly, and hopefully the concluding part to A Hole in the Head, and another Her Burning Heart. Although this 'night' section was short, there was a point, which will be revealed! Anyway, hope you enjoyed it and please review!

**Disclaimer: **Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page without my express written permission. Thankyou!

**JetNoir**


	3. Wednesday

**Note:** The 'Honey to the Lion' postcard came from Dr Lecter in the novel, yet in the film, it was written by Mason Verger. So this poses a slight problem, which is probably why Clarice is so confused! So…I just included both to be on the safe side! A warning, this chapter contains scenes of a very violent, horrific and disturbing nature.

**DAYNIGHT**

**a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir**

WEDNESDAY

A meadow.

Wild flowers, knee length, whispered softly in the breeze. There was no fauna to be seen, and as Clarice Starling turned, she felt the sun on her face.

A giggle.

Clarice lowered her head, and opened her eyes. Lilia Derevko, murderer, friend, doctor, stood radiant in front of her. She was wearing a long purple dress, and matching purple glasses.

_Clarice…_

Lilia had not worn glasses. Her eyes had been perfect.

_Open your eyes._

Another giggle, a warm smile, and Lilia began to talk with her soft Russian accent:

"Nothing is simpler to kill a man; the difficulties arise in attempting to avoid the consequences."

"What?" said Clarice, her carefully hidden Virginian accent forcing itself to audibly surface, "That's a quote. What is it?"

"Rex Stout," said Lilia, "but remember Clarice. You are the answer to Samson's riddle: You are the honey to the lion. The Great Sage wrote that, in the guise of an insane disfigured madman. Well, in our lifetime. In another, it was a different madman. Politer, charming…but still mad!"

"Lilia…insane and madman are the same, and what are you talking about? " said Clarice.

"But _our _madman's twice as mad as he's disfigured!" giggled Lilia, "There's no arguing with my logic!"

"But your logic led you to kill," said Clarice, "how can you justify it?"

"Oh no," said Lilia, "not logic, never logic. Conditioning, by my experiences. Accident's; creating violence."

A small drop of blood fell from Lilia's little finger to the flower's below, but none followed.

_Clarice, wake up damnit!_

Lilia smiled one final time.

"Wake up sleepyhead!" she said, "Open your eyes."

With a gasp, Clarice did.

--

­­­­(d a y)

Waking up, she gazed into the concerned eyes of District Director Vaughn.

"You okay?" he asked, "You were screaming."

"What?" said Clarice, her eyes slowly focusing.

"Screaming," said Vaughn, "bad dreams?"

"You could say that. I seem to be on duty twenty-four hours a day. I'm cooped up in her during the day due to some madman! It's insane!"

"Well, we may have a lead. We found a body, downtown."

"And how is that helpful?" asked Clarice.

"A word, inscribed on the corpse. Chosen." Clarice sat upright in shock.

"When can I see it?" she asked, trying to keep her voice under control.

"After dark," said Vaughn, raising a hand to quell Clarice's yell of indignation, "just to be on the safe side. We're getting forensics over there now, and as soon as Night falls, I'll take you. It isn't pretty though. Real nasty. There's also this." He handed Clarice a letter, "We scanned this. As always, negative chemical, biological, and explosive.

Clarice sighed, and opened it quickly. A newspaper cutting fell out. Clarice recognised it instantly, it was from The National Tattler.

_**"DEATH ANGEL: CLARICE STARLING – THE FBI'S KILLING MACHINE! By Thomas Harris, Special Correspondent."**_

That was all it said, in it's seventy-two-point Railroad Gothic. The clipping of the headline. Nothing more. Except…

Seeing a faint imprint, Clarice carefully turned the cutting over, so not to disturb any forensic evidence, they might have been careless, and left prints, she saw written in black permanent marker: "**How are you finding your Gaol? An angel sent from Hell. Seems appropriate somehow.**" It wasn't signed, but you didn't have to be a genius to figure out who sent it.

"Shit!" yelled Clarice, "how could we have been so stupid! It's right in front of out damn noses!"

"What?" said Vaughn, "What are you talking about?"

Clarice brought the clipping to the table, where yesterdays letter was resting.

"Here," said Clarice, "I never realised until now. It's this one word, it's the key. Gaol."

"Key, gaol. Ironic," muttered Vaughn.

"No!" said Clarice, "Look at the way it's spelt. How do we spell 'jail', here?"

"J – A – I – L," said Vaughn, "but it's spelt wrong!"

"No," said Clarice, "it's spelt _right!"_

"I don't follow."

"In America, we spell 'jail', like you just did, J – A – I – L; like they do in Great Britain. However, the proper_ BRITISH_ spelling is G – A – O – L, like in this letter. That's how it should be called, but some believe that the American way of spelling had corrupted the British original! We're looking for a Brit."

"That doesn't narrow it down as much," said Vaughn, "but what are they after. Are they anti-American?"

"I think they're just anti-Starling!" sighed Clarice.

--

(n i g h t)

Blue and red lights flashed around the crime scene, but the sirens were switched off, and Starling was grateful for that.

"Are you sure about this?" asked District Director Vaughn, "I saw this, this morning, and…it's unspeakable."

"I'll have seen worse," said Clarice, who stopped a moment, as a subtle stench invaded her nostrils. Blood. Fresh blood. She steeled herself and walked into the flat.

It wasn't a particularly rough part of town, just noisy, and the neighbours had rung after they had begun to smell something.

The corpse was in the living room, and Clarice realised her nose had been right. There was blood everywhere, especially where the hands and feet of the body were. Then she realised. There were no hands or feet of the body. Something had cut them off cleanly at the wrists and ankles. Blood had grouped there, masking the flesh, but Clarice could see bone protruding through the mess.

Forcing herself not to regurgitate, Clarice kept moving, and kept thinking.

"Where is the rest of the…body?" she managed, before she flung herself out the door, and violently deposited her lunch on the cold paving stones outside.

It cannot be stressed enough, how horrific, and disturbing, this corpse was. The murder was…well lets not go there yet.

When she managed to get her stomach under control, Clarice sighed, and moved back inside.

"The rest of the body," said Vaughn, "is underneath the table. And I did warn you."

"Yeah," said Clarice, "thanks for that. Really clear." Before Vaughn got a chance to reply, she moved to the table. The hands and feet were neatly tied together, so Clarice came to the correct conclusion, that the hands and feet had been tied together, and severed at the same time, so remaining bound.

"Guy was treated like a piece of meat," said Vaughn from behind her, "It's like you'd tie an animal. Cause of death was blood loss. They did this too him while he was still alive."

"Jesus Christ," said Clarice, "just how…could. No, focus. What was this message you told me about?"

"On his chest. Inscribed in blood."

"Great," muttered Clarice, "just, friggin', great."

A forensic officer, opened the mans shirt. Presumably inscribed by a knife were the words were:

**i disobeyed the**

**C H O S E N**

"Not that skilled," said Vaughn, "they cut his left nipple off."

"Probably by accident," said Clarice, "but considering what they did. I wouldn't be surprised."

"We found a hair, not of the man," said Vaughn, "we're ID'ing it, and the John Doe. You okay?"

"No," said Clarice, "I'm not. Is there anything else you want to show me?" Vaughn shook his head. "Good, can we please go?"

"Probably a good idea," said Vaughn, "sometime I really hate this job."

--

Outside, the air was cold and still. Clarice breathed in deeply as she walked to Vaughn's car, trying to expunge the cruelty of the savage murder.

"So what do we do now?" asked Clarice. They were about halfway to the car, some way from the Chicago Police Department and FBI behind them.

"Well," began Vaughn, as with a screech of tires, and a _pop_, he slowly fell to the ground.

"VAUGHN!" screamed Clarice, as she recognised the sound of a silenced pistol. A large unmarked black van pulled up behind her, the sliding door, partly open, and being slid violently aside, as darkly gloved hands reached for her, and grabbed her, pulling her inside, against her will, shoving, trying to hold her breath, as a rag was placed over her mouth and nose, and she breathed something in, chemical, Chloroform and slowly, losing all consciousness, she fell into a black coma.

As she struggled to remain conscious, she heard a whispering in her ear, the breath almost intimate, saying: "You are a prisoner…of the Chosen, Agent Starling."

Clarice lost track of everything after that.

--

**Note:** Right, I've got some nasty stuff floating around my brain. I hope nobody was offended, I actually found it incredibly difficult to write this chapter. The next chapter will be very short, with a few clues being revealed, and then it's Thursday! I'm hoping to get A Hole In The Head finished, but there are one or two slight problems with the chronology, so as soon as I've fixed it, it'll be up. I hope you enjoyed this chapter (and didn't find it upsetting, or too disturbing), and please, please review!

**Disclaimer: **Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page without my express written permission. Thankyou!

**JetNoir**


	4. In Transit

**Note:** This is just a very short chapter, more or less to reveal a little more about The Chosen. Thursday should be hopefully up in the not too distant future.

**DAYNIGHT**

**a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir**

IN TRANSIT

Sometime past Midnight. We are in the Witching Hour…and Thursday has begun. Almost.

For Clarice Starling, there is nothing but darkness. On the edges of consciousness, she fights to wake up; but it doesn't come. The steady thrum of engines is all she can here, a steady mechanical beat.

The urge to scream is overpowering, as is her need to regurgitate. Clarice cannot do either, but still, it's slipping away.

_I know you can here me. You are Starling. I am Chosen._

"Whh..at do you want?"

_You cannot give me what I want._

_Death._

_Pain._

_Suffering._

_I want your blood Clarice Starling._

_I want you to suffer._

_Like._

_Lilia._

"Lilia? What about Lilia?"

_You murdered her!_

"She killed! God…I wanted to save her! She was the murderer. She…was my friend."

_Liar._

_You have no friends._

_We are Death._

_You are Death._

_That is why we're together._

"Huh? That…doesn't make any sense."

_What make sense? Life doesn't make sense. We live in a logic-less world. Killers walk the streets. Innocents are executed._

_But we are concerned with you._

_A new step of your incarceration is beginning._

"Don't do this. You don't _have _to do this."

_We do. You know that._

"Your letter. You lied."

_We didn't lie. Even if we did, what would it matter?_

Something presses down on her nose and mouth again, and the drug-induced coma deepens, until Starling is once again sleeping.

She heard one last thing:

_We are none of us guaranteed anything in life but the last breath we take…_

--

Warehouse; Chicago

Three black-clad (unmasked) figures approached the van to meet the two inside it.

These are the self-proclaimed 'Chosen'.

Gently they lift the sleeping Starling out of the van, and bring her to the new room.

Tomorrow, it would begin.

--

In Dreams

"Come on Clarice! You know better than that!"

The voice soft in her ear. Clarice's eyes flickered open.

"Lilia?" said Starling, "Lilia, what's going on?"

"You're asleep again!" said Lilia. She was wearing the same purple dress, but no glasses. On her right cheek, there was a small drop of blood.

"Maybe they should have killed me," said Clarice, "but why are they letting me live?"

"You know why," said Lilia, "and when they are done…you are going to wish you had died."

"You know about this. What lies ahead. What are they going to do to me?"

"You know that. Pain. You will feel nothing but pain and suffering. They are going to hurt you Clarice."

Coming out of the dream, Lilia disappearing in a series of flashes, Clarice screamed.

Looks like they hadn't waited for tomorrow after all.

--

Day. Night.

Crying a thousand tears, in moonlight.

Trying to stop the pain.

Begging for deliverance.

Eyes opening and closing.

Immortal suffering, raining on my mouth.

Rain, red rain, blossoming.

A Poppy, opening.

Screaming.

Turning away, mourning my life.

Angels weep, and lambs bleat.

Holding on, to nothing but forbidden memory.

Catch me.

On a silver rainbow.

Deep within stars.

As I struggle towards daylight.

* * *

**Note:** Right, to be continued! Hope you enjoyed the chapter (and the poem), and please, please review!

**Disclaimer: **Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page without my express written permission. Thankyou!

**JetNoir**


	5. Thursday

**Note:** This chapter contains some scenes of torture. I seem to be writing quite a bit about subjects I feel strongly against, domestic abuse (in Her Burning Heart), and now torture in this. Interestingly enough, I hadn't intended to use it for this chapter, but as I started to write the kidnapping at the end of Wednesday, then it just sort of fell into place. To paraphrase Quentin Tarantino (regarding Reservoir Dogs): 'I didn't go out with the intention of writing a bitching torture scene, it just sort of happened.' It's the same here, and I firmly believe that under _no_ circumstances is torture acceptable, which is why I'm writing about it in such a way.

**DAYNIGHT**

**a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir**

THURSDAY

(d a y)

The Warehouse

Clarice Starling awoke screaming, and that was how she spent the next hour. Burns were inflicted on her body for no purpose but the pleasure of her captors.

And then they left her alone.

--

Breathing deeply, and trying to come to terms with what was happening, Clarice tried to make sense of her surroundings. She was in a warehouse, and due to relative silence she presumed she was some way away from passing traffic. Indeed, if she were in such pain, and screaming, her captors would want to make sure that no one could hear her.

They had been using an iron rod, seemingly heated to hurt her. It was crude, yet effective, yet they would need something – like a fire – to heat the metal.

They didn't want information. Not yet. But they might.

Bighting back another scream, Clarice tried to focus, but the pain was too intense. She was strapped to a hard bed, her arms and legs separated by leather straps.

She couldn't do this anymore. This wasn't even for information. They were torturing her, sadistically, for _pleasure_. What sort of monster could do that to anyone…human or otherwise?

She knew she was going to die. They couldn't afford for her to live, and Dr Lecter was not here. He couldn't save her this time. She had no one to rely on. No one to rescue her.

Vaughn! Was he alright? Had they killed him as well?

What did these 'Chosen' want?

Clarice found the answer simple.

Pain.

Suffering.

They wanted misery.

--

The Hospital

District Director Vaughn was still unconscious, as his fiancé came to visit.

"What's wrong?" she cried, almost frantic with worry.

"Maria," said the Doctor, "he's been shot. We're lucky, it's only a tranquilliser, but we can't bring him out. It could be up to twenty-four hours before he comes round."

"I don't understand," said Maria, gazing at Vaughn's closed eyelids, "he said he was on routine assignment."

The Doctor sighed. This would not make it easier.

"I have a letter for you," said the Doctor, "the FBI have checked it, due to its unusual method of delivery."

"How was it delivered?" Maria asked.

"Pigeon," said the Doctor, "the message arrived at the Hospital, addressed to you, by Carrier Pigeon."

"WHAT?"

"I'm serious," said the Doctor, "it just seems the sender isn't. Serious, that is. I'll leave you to be with your husband."

Maria slowly opened the letter with shaking hands.

_For the fiancé of District Director Vaughn,_

_I wish to express my regrets regarding the injuries sustained by District Director Vaughn by out hand. It was a necessary evil, in our bid to capture and incarcerate the murderer called Clarice Starling. We must ask you to convey a message to your fiancé, that our fight is not with him; rather, he is involved in trying to keep Starling safe. He must cease and desist, with immediate effect, these attempts. We will not be held responsible for our actions if he is harmed further, if he attempts to stop us._

_Please stress our pure intent to District Director Vaughn, and our unreserved apologies again for his injuries._

_Sincerely,_

_**The Chosen.**_

--

The Warehouse

Clarice again bordered between the state of consciousness, and sleep.

Inch for inch, a burn is probably the worst injury that can be inflicted for sheer pain. Nothing hurts more, and that is why The Chosen had seemingly…chosen it. Instant pain, in virtually no time.

Outside the Warehouse, the sun is beginning to set. They have more planned, but in their eyes it isn't fit for the Sun to witness.

Red fills the sky, what they call Shepherd's Delight, as red fills Clarice's vision.

She isn't going to be too delighted.

--

The Hotel

The FBI Taskforce's new assignment is too find Clarice Starling, but they know that it is the proverbial needle in a haystack the size of…well, Chicago. She could be anywhere, including _outside_ the city.

Deputy District Director Hamilton, of FBI Chicago, is in over his head. He's happy following Vaughn's orders, but he's never lead anything before. All he can do is delegate and pray. Praying is good, he thinks, and he prays that Vaughn will wake up soon, so he can take over again.

They are around the twenty-hour mark since Clarice was abducted; the Violent Crimes Unit (Kidnapping) are trawling the city for clues, but still nothing. Tech's are scanning radio frequencies, for errant communications, and are scanning telephones for hits on keywords: Clarice, Starling, Chosen; and so on. No luck.

And it really is luck. The FBI has nothing to go on, Local Police are proving to be less than useless, and the media are having a field day.

On a side note of curiosity, no one is actually checking out the Pigeon. Maybe they'll get to that.

--

(n i g h t)

The Warehouse

"Clarice…wake up," that hurtful voice was calling for her again, "wake up!" Sadly, she did as ordered. Her eyes swam into focus, and for the first time she saw the face of her captor. It was a man, with a British accent, and a thick beard. His pale blue eyes captivated and held her fast.

"Stop this," Clarice murmured, "you don't have too."

"Yes we do," said the captor, and Clarice realised that she had been moved. Her feet were bare, and held in stocks, her arms tied behind her back. There was a long bamboo pole on the floor, and a bucket filled with some unidentifiable liquid.

"Bastinado," said Clarice, "you're going to use a Bastinado. Beat the soles of my feet. How _original._"

"Not quite," the captor smirked, "although your sarcasm is a refreshing change to the screaming, Agent Starling." A pause as he turned, "Bring me the implement!"

Behind her, Clarice heard a dull bleating, and she almost laughed at how ridiculous it was.

"A goat?" she said, "To do what? Eat my feet? I think you would need boars to do that! Or something that isn't a _herbivore!_"

"Again, not quite right, Agent Starling," said the captor, "we don't want him to _eat _your feet." He reached down, picked up the liquid, and sloshed it over Starling's feet.

"Salt water," the captor said, "in Medieval times, a known form of torture was to pour salt water over a captive's feet, when in the stocks, and to get a goat to _lick_ it." Guiding the goat with the bamboo pole, as if touching the animal would de-cleanse the captor, the goat proceeded to do just that.

Clarice was at a point between screaming and laughing, but the sensation reached a point that was simply _uncomfortable_. It hurt, and made her squirm like an eel.

The goat didn't last long, thankfully, and the captor simply decided to accelerate events.

"Well," he said, "this day is almost at an end. Here is where you are…and there is a phone about to be placed within your reach. It will automatically dial the phone of Director Vaughn's hospital bedside…and you will have one minute before the phone will disconnect. After the phone had disconnected, you will die in an hour…unless he reaches you in time."

He reached behind Clarice, and untied her hands. She weakly grabbed for him, but he pulled away easily.

"Such spirit," the captor said, face twisting into a smirk, pulling out an extremely long knife and plunging it deeply into Clarice's arm, pinning it to the floor below. Clarice cried out, and the man twisted away, before she could grab him again. From the edge of the room, he slid a mobile phone to her right hand.

"We are leaving now."

And so they did.

--

The Hospital

District Director Vaughn had woken up an hour ago, and apart from feeling groggy, he was alright. He is currently in conversation with his fiancé as the phone rings.

"Yes," he says.

"Vaughn, it's Clarice. Don't talk, I have less than sixty seconds to talk to you before the phone disconnects. I'm at this location," which she gave him, "and you have to come and get me within an hour of this phone call, or I'll be executed. I think they've left, but I counted five of them. I heard a van pull away. You've got to co-"

The phone clicked dead.

"Clarice!" said Vaughn, and wasting no time, staggered to his feet, and dialled the FBI Chicago head office, and explained the situation. Within minutes cars were on their way to the Warehouse, and a care had picked up Vaughn by his insistence, his fiancé and doctor protesting vehemently…but Vaughn would brook no argument.

Time was running out. Fast.

--

The Warehouse

It had been close to half an hour since Clarice had made her call, and since then had mercifully passed out. She hadn't wanted to touch the knife sticking out of her arm, for fear of making things far worse. All she knew was the pain was agonising…and her burns felt worse. However, that was a small comfort. She knew that the worse the burn was, the less pain you felt, as the nerve endings had been destroyed, and as she was in so much pain, she felt the burns were superficial. However, the burns were still agony, and she felt that pain acutely.

The Police and FBI had forbidden all (including a protesting Vaughn) to enter, but two young FBI agents, who crept into the Warehouse, guns outstretched, covering each other. They soon found Clarice, and asked for Paramedics to come and get her, but the Paramedics were forbidden to enter. They would have to make do, and carry her out.

Health and Safety, not at it's best…but the taskforce didn't know where the Chosen were.

A sturdy padlock, locked the shackle on the stocks edge, and with no key in sight, one FBI agent carefully took aim, almost vertically above the lock, and shot it off with two bullets. The padlock flew across the room, but they could release her from her bonds.

Picking Clarice up between them, they scurried out, other Agents covering them.

Groaning, Clarice woke up as she was being taken into the ambulance, the first thing she saw was Vaughn's bleary eyes.

"Glad you're safe," he said.

"Safe," said Clarice, "believe me it wasn't that."

"I can imagine that," that said Vaughn, "and for what it's worth…I'm sorry."

Clarice just smiled wearily.

It was then a fair approximation of all hell broke loose, when the Warehouse exploded into a series of three fireballs, leaving no trace or evidence that anyone had been there. The only thing left would be part of a charred skeleton of a goat which would baffle everyone until Clarice got a chance to explain.

And so, in the chaos of the fire, Clarice Starling was driven away, with sirens wailing, away from the Inferno.

She knew that Paradiso was not waiting for her.

So all she was left with was Purgatorio.

It seemed that that would have to be enough.

* * *

**Note:** Well, I'm really starting to get into the swing of things, and the story is going to have finished in three-ish more chapters! I'm thoroughly enjoying myself, but I must get A Hole In The Head finished, and preferable two chapters of Her Burning Heart…I'm trying to write these stories on a rough schedule, so I don't end up with one story to finish before I can merge the completed stories. But for some reason, I love the challenge, although it's getting incredibly complicated now. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it, and please review! (By the way, what did you think of the more surreal elements of this story, the Pigeon and the Goat? And sincerest apologies for all you animal-lovers there, but please remember that no goats were harmed in the making of this fanfic, and also no FBI agents!)

**Disclaimer: **Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page without my express written permission. Thankyou!

**JetNoir**


	6. Friday

**Note:** I'm back! And deliriously happy to be so, might I add! This chapter has been a long time coming, and somewhat tricky, as there wasn't too much I could do, as the main action will come in the final chapters. One thing, please let me know what you think of the Lilia/Clarice sequences. I must admit I particularly like them! In addition, The Snow Building (to my knowledge) doesn't exist. So, without further ado, the next chapter…

This chapter contains a scene of a gory nature.

**DAYNIGHT**

**a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir**

FRIDAY

"Don't say I didn't tell you!" came a quiet but insistent voice at Clarice Starling's ear.

Clarice mumbled something unintelligible, groaned slightly, and turned over on the bright green grass. Slowly she opened her eyes to see light; bright, shining and glorious.

"Come on! I don't have all day you know!" A figure moved over Clarice's face, blocking her view of the sky. Long brown hair and purple glasses told her who it was (apart from the giveaway Russian accent that is).

"Lilia…mumph, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Charming! I am in your head after all!"

Clarice shook her head to try to clear it, and propped herself up on her arms. Lilia knelt until their faces were at the same level.

"If you did that in reality, it will really hurt," said Lilia, "those burns will be nasty."

"Why is it me? Do I have some insane-person magnet on my forehead? Verger, the Chosen, the good Doctor Lecter, even you! Why am I the one to always suffer?"

"Come Clarice, that isn't exactly fair. I may be imaginary, but I still have feelings you know!"

"There's no place like home," muttered Clarice, clicking her heels together, "come on damnit, wake up!"

"As you wish," said Lilia, "but I warn you. You're only in for more pain, dear. Just try and be more careful, okay!"

"Yes," sighed Clarice, "although why I'm trying to console a dream-image of a serial-killer is beyond me." Lilia glared at Clarice and out-stretched her finger: "I'm trying to help you, Clarice. Don't throw it all back in my face!"

Clarice apologised, to which Lilia smiled. The grass, sky, sun, and Lilia all disappeared rapidly. The purple glasses lingered a moment longer, and then vanished as Clarice woke up, for the second day running, screaming.

--

(d a y)

The Hospital

Occupying the bed that District Director Vaughn had laid in twelve hours earlier had a disconcerting effect, not in the least to Vaughn, who was sitting beside Clarice's bedside, himself utterly exhausted.

He was gently nodding off, when he awoke to Clarice screaming.

Snapping awake, he rushed to her side: "Shush, shush, you're safe. Clarice, you are safe. You're okay, you're in the hospital, you're safe."

Clarice breathed heavily, and choked back sobs. It took a few moments, but she managed to get her cries of panic under control.

"Have you got them?" she asked.

"The Chosen? No, not yet. We're working on everything we've got. No luck yet. Probably the opposite."

"Opposite of what?"

"Luck," Vaughn said, "I've never known anything like it. This is a domestic terror group, who have in less than a week, created one of the greatest furores in the United States, in recent memory. Have you actually seen the news? Every major news network is leading with the story, and of course you are a major story, what with your history."

"Well, what with being shot at, beaten, burned, and being unconscious, I haven't generally been watching much television."

"Sorry," said Vaughn, "but we are reaching out limits. How are we meant to get these people?"

Vaughn's thoughts were intruded by Clarice's stomach growling extremely loudly.

"Hungry?" asked Vaughn.

"Ravenous."

"Well, it's nowhere near meal-time. I'll order takeout. Chinese?"

Clarice nodded gratefully.

--

The Dry Motel; City Limits of Chicago

Despite the light of day, Room 13 was in a state of perpetual twilight. Inside, two men and one woman stand around a phone, switched to speakerphone. One man, with a British accent, a thick beard, and pale blue eyes; was talking to an electronically disfigured voice.

"_You have done well my Chosen."_

"Thankyou gracious Leader. Phase five is over, and we are now progressing into the endgame."

"_Good. Keep me informed."_ The phone clicked off.

"Right," said the bearded man, "you heard. We progress to final stage."

--

The Hospital

Clarice slurped up the last of the mushrooms and noodles, and quickly traded it for another carton. Her chopsticks clicked and clacked as she and Vaughn wolfed down the food. From the amount of carton scattered about, you would have assumed it was a feast for ten people - however the two of them were quickly getting through it. Neither had eaten much the past five days and it showed.

"Hamilton's heading up the team at the Hotel," said Vaughn, "and we still have tech's sweeping the city for electronic signals."

"The Warehouse," said Clarice, "I never asked. Was anyone hurt?"

"We were bloody lucky. One Agent got concussion…knocked off his feet by the blast; and that's it. The goat confused the hell out of us for a while, and the warehouse doesn't seem to be owned by anyone, it was just being left to rot. Anything that may have been there was obviously destroyed. We've hit a brick wall twenty miles high."

"What about the body?"

"Forensics have yet to get back to me," said Vaughn, "apparently they're having major difficulties. Of what kind, I don't know. I can do nothing but wait on them."

They kept on eating.

--

Around half an hour later, the phone next to the bed started to ring. Clarice put down her chopsticks (she was still eating, but at a slower rate), and picked it up.

"Special Agent Starling? I'm Marla, the receptionist. There's a man on for you; he wouldn't give his name. Should I put him through?"

Clarice frowned: "Sure." There was a click.

"Is this Clarice? Hello Clarice." The familiar words made her sit up.

"Who is this?" demanded Starling, "Who are you."

"A friend. My name isn't important. I represent a certain party, which has a vested interest in your survival. I am willing to disclose certain information regarding the domestic terrorist group called The Chosen, at eleven thirty tonight. Be at The Snow Building, thirteenth floor, by the elevator. Come alone."

"How do I know to trust you? Why should I?"

"You shouldn't trust me." He hung up.

"What was that about?" asked Vaughn, and Clarice told him.

"Secret societies, mysterious informants. This is turning into a bad spy novel," sighed Vaughn.

"Yeah," said Clarice, "tell me about it."

Her eyes fell on an unopened fortune cookie, the last on the napkin they were spread on.

"Eat it," said Vaughn, so Clarice picked it up with a smile and cracked it open. Slowly chomping on the biscuit, she unwrapped the message, and her eyes opened when she saw the message.

It read: _Never forget, that in your suffering, you are never alone…_

(n i g h t)

13th Floor; The Snow Building

Eleven thirty. Clarice was waiting outside the elevator, as per the instructions. She swivelled as the doors pinged and opened. So this was the informant,

Clarice took a moment to study him, he was tall, delicate bone structure, dark hair and eyes, yet very masculine. She began to open her mouth, but the man held up a hand:

"Please. Do not waste my precious time on formalities. You may not know my name, or speak for that matter. I work for an organisation for which the, in adverted commas, 'Chosen', have become a thorn in our side. Therefore it is in your best interests to listen. I presume you are bugged, and I noticed a few FBI guards surrounding the building," Clarice nodded, "good. That simplifies matters. I do not know why they wish to kill or harm you, that is in the mind of the Leader. All we know is that his name is Lawrence Day, and he is based in New York, nothing else. Of the three situated in Chicago, the cell leader is Dennis Hyde, former British Army, dishonourable discharged. The woman is Angela Carey, South African, a part of Apartheid. She seeming skipped the country in the early nineties. The final member is Terrence Eddings, a former FBI agent. He'll be in your files. Just remember, these are not the only cell in this country. They may be more gunning for you."

There was a loud sound that seemed to come from a few floors down.

"Blast," the man murmured, "right, Starling, you're on your own. Don't follow me." He got back in the elevator, and pressed the ground floor button.

"You got that?" asked Starling to her wire, and a response from Vaughn came into her earpiece, while Clarice watched the elevator light go down the numbers:

"Yeah, I got it. Especially the bit about Terrence Eddings. He used to work out of the Chicago office, I knew him, and he was a nasty piece of work. I can't believe that he's behind this though…or rather, part of it-" He stopped talking. The Elevator stopped on the second floor - and stayed there.

"Vaughn? Vaughn! What's going on."

"There's a body…damnit Clarice, it's an ambush! FBI down! Get me an ambulance! FBI down! Clarice, get the hell out of there!"

Clarice needed no second bidding, drawing her gun, and stealthily heading for the stairs.

Opening the doors, she checked the stairs up and down, pistol outstretched, before slowly working her way downwards. Past 8, then 5, Clarice encountered no resistance. But the door to floor 2 was open, an outstretched hand laid across the floor stopping the door from closing. Clarice inched the door open, and fell back as a wave of nausea passed over her.

The informant lay dead on the floor, a hole through his head, and a mixture of blood, bone, and brain matter sticking to the door. He had been shot while trying to escape.

Knowing there was nothing she could do for him now, she gingerly closed the door, and crouching continued her way to the ground floor.

There was no-one in the lobby, as Clarice peeped through the door, so she slipped through, and quickly made her way to the glass exit. Surely it couldn't be this easy.

"MURDERER!" the scream, which Clarice recognised as the female Chosen - now identified as Angela Carey - to her horror. Unable to help herself, she slowly spun around, to see a huge gun (what a film noir would call a hand cannon) pointed at her. Carey squeezed off two shots in quick succession, which somehow missed her, shattering the glass with an ear-splitting roar.

Clarice ducked, and fell into the street, her gun held out behind her firing blindly at Carey.

Picking herself off the floor, she dove down the street. Vaughn was nowhere to be seen, and Clarice prayed that they hadn't got to him.

The seconds ticked up to midnight, and the running battle continued, street after street after street. Clarice, lost, completely cut off and alone, fighting for her life, spotted a corner ahead.

With gunshots exploding all around her, Special Agent Clarice Starling threw herself around the corner and kept on running…

**Note:** What else can I say but To Be Continued… I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and as always, please review!

**Disclaimer: **Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page without my express written permission. Thankyou!

**JetNoir**


	7. Saturday

**Note:** Well, here we are: the penultimate chapter. Just to let you know, that 'The Drake Hotel' and 'The Hotel' are separate hotels, 'The Hotel' being where Clarice has been staying, and the purpose of 'The Drake Hotel' (which is real), will soon be made clear. This chapter contains strong bloody violence, some strong language, and begins approximately two minutes after the previous chapter…

**DAYNIGHT**

**a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir**

SATURDAY

(n i g h t)

The Streets of Chicago; three blocks from The Snow Building

With gunshots exploding all around her, Special Agent Clarice Starling threw herself around the corner and kept on running…

"You know, running away isn't going to help," said Lilia Derevko, floating a foot off the ground, "you have to face your problems, head on! Just don't lose your head in the process!"

"Shut up, you," snapped Clarice, sweat dripping off her brow, "you're not real. You're a voice in my head. You don't exist. AND THE WOMAN BEHIND ME WITH A VERY BIG GUN IS REAL!"

"Charming!" she said, slightly insulted. She leaned back, and kept flying beside her, "But dearest Clarice. Please make sure you aren't going, a little…well. You are talking to me, in the real world, so to speak. We aren't directly in your head anymore, are we?"

"LILIA! SHUT UP!" Lilia shrugged (quite a feat while flying backwards…then again, flying backwards itself is a feat), and disappeared. The wall next to Clarice exploded, and she knew Angela was right behind her.

Swearing viciously, she threw herself to the left, into an alley. Making sure there were several dumpsters between her and Carey's pistol, she pounded through the steam, and smog, and wind. It was so cold, Clarice thought. She had been so intent on the chase, she had just noticed it.

There was silence, but Clarice was not lulled by it, knowing Carey must have paused to reload. Never one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, she began to press her advantage. Turning left again, she began to run back towards the Snow Building, intent on finding Vaughn.

Her gun. She had forgotten she had a gun! Having used it only moments earlier, she had clean forgotten it's very existence? Mentally kicking herself, she drew it again, and still running, knowing (and hearing) Carey was behind her, she pointed it behind her, and pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked empty.

Swearing viciously again, she pulled the gun around, thumbed the clip release button, slid a new clip in, then turned the gun round and fired twice. The first time, the chamber was empty, but after, a round was expelled towards Carey. Hearing no letup in the steady stream of gunfire directed at her, she kept firing, and dodging.

She was rapidly approaching the Snow Building, now a block away. The running battle continued, both parties wasting bullets.

"Starling!" yelled a voice. Vaughn. Raising her head slightly, she saw him peeking round the corner. Putting on a burst of speed, she flung herself around, while Vaughn moved swiftly round, aiding her around, and laying down covering fire.

Meanwhile, in the middle of the street, Angela Carey dropped to the hard road, and began to roll sideways away from the fire.

Back at the corner, Clarice had reloaded her gun, and while still out of breath, leaned around and fired towards the rolling target, fury smouldering in her eyes.

Carey went limp.

"Careful," warned Vaughn, as he put his gun in a two handed position, pointed at an angle towards Carey. Clarice mirrored the gesture, and they quickly moved towards her.

Not knowing whether she was dead or alive, Vaughn called out: "FBI! Don't move!"

Carey, with a snarl began to twist her gun-arm up, and aim at Clarice, but before she had got a quarter of the way, Clarice shot her between the eyes. Vaughn flinched as a combination of blood, brain matter, and shards of bone flooded the pavement, and splattered on his several-hundred dollar shoes. Clarice was immobile.

Slowly, she lowered and holstered her weapon.

"Goddamnit," she muttered, "damnit."

Vaughn looked back at her: "It's a clean shooting, Clarice, don't fret."

"I wonder how many I've killed. So many people," she spat, "that I've just shot. You know what, Vaughn? I'm beginning to wonder if these Chosen are right about me. Did you know that the Guinness World Record people wanted to include me as the female FBI Agent who has shot and killed the most people."

"I didn't know that," said Vaughn, and Clarice continued:

"When I was at the Academy, and after I graduated…hell, even now: I always hated the people who used their weapons as penis extensions. When men and women believed that the gun gives them a power over other people. These weapons are a necessary evil, one made necessary by the evil that is around us, created by us. I'm starting to bloody hate this job."

Vaughn looked at her, and nodded a little: "I know what you mean. After everything you've been through in the past six days, and probably your FBI career. Clarice…everyone knew you were meant for greatness. You still are. It was the evil, the pettiness and jealousy in people that held you back. You were the rising star, and your antagonists…weren't. Frankly, it stinks."

"But there isn't a thing we can do about it," she said, and Vaughn shook his head sadly.

Turning his head back to Carey, and again flinching at her lack of major parts from her skull, quickly searched her pockets.

"Hello," he murmured, "what have we here?"

In his hand lay a matchbook - the type they give away at hotels. It read: _The Drake Hotel_.

"Son of a bitch," murmured Vaughn, "what a rookie mistake." He turned to Clarice, and reached into his pocket.

Extracting a mobile phone, he swiftly dialled the numbers to the FBI Chicago field office.

--

The Drake Hotel

It had taken eight minutes for the majority of the Chicago field office to pick up Clarice and Vaughn, and begin a forensic investigation of the several-block-radius crime scene.

In another ten minutes, blazing sirens converged on The Drake Hotel. In the car, Vaughn had wiped his shoes, as not to sully any carpets.

Guns un-holstered, FBI and C.P.D. ran through to the lobby, and after swiftly explaining the situation to the manager, located Angela Carey's room. Due to the fact, the manager had seen other men with Carey, the combined taskforce crept up the stairwells, and elevators, covering everywhere. The Drake Hotel was completely locked down.

Placing the flimsy plastic card-key in the slot, they burst into the room, only to find it as empty as Angela Carters, now severely damaged, head.

Knowing they would have scared off the supposed two members left of the Chosen, they decided to bring the forensics in. They finished with the bed first, then moved to the windows.

--

"Glad I wasn't staying here," murmured Clarice, her world becoming slightly hazy, "all this disruption. People paid good money for us to ruin their night."

"Everyone's trying to save you," said Lilia (sans glasses), "and I know how you worry about it. Oh, silly, you're exhausted. Can't you see that." She took Clarice by the shoulder, and guided her to the bed. "You need to rest," she continued, her voice growing softer.

When Clarice was asleep (and that didn't take long), unseen to the technicians, and scientists, and police, Lilia gently tucked her in, smiled, and disappeared.

Fantasy and reality were blurring in Clarice's mind, but asleep she remained, and the taskforce (especially Vaughn) decided that she definitely needed to rest.

And as Doctor Hannibal Lecter proved, serial-killers can be rather sweet.

--

(d a y)

The Dry Motel; City Limits of Chicago

Dennis Hyde, and Laurence Eddings remained in the dark room, talking to the leader of the Chosen over speakerphone.

"She hasn't returned."

"_Then you must assume that she is dead."_

"Sir. We have followed you without hesitation…but the death of Angela."

"_You know what sacrifice must be made. She must be made an example of. This evil of the Federal Bureau of Investigation cannot be allowed to spread. So my Chosen. The time has come for our endgame."_

"What are your orders, sir?"

"_Kill Starling."_

--

Unknown Location; New York

In another dark room, hundreds of miles away to the east, sat the leader of the Chosen, known in some circles as Laurence Day. He replaced the receiver, and leaned back in the chair, sighing.

"The final trial is upon you, my chosen one. I still regret putting you through this. So it seems that your conduct will determine what will come."

--

(n i g h t)

The Drake Hotel

From darkness to light, and day to night; Clarice Starling awoke to bustling forensics. Her exhausted mind took several seconds to focus, and realise where she was: asleep in one of the most famous hotels in the world, and she hadn't paid a single cent!

Slowly sitting up, she saw Vaughn, and his concerned face.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"We're not safe here, Clarice. Too many civilians for my liking, and the media has cottoned on, damn them to hell. We need to evacuate you back to our hotel, it's being emptied as we speak."

"Why the rush, Vaughn?"

"There's been some chatter. Most of it's encrypted, but we managed to pick up 'Chosen' and 'Kill Starling'. We know the calls originated in Chicago and New York, but that's about it."

"When were they placed?"

"A few hours ago. We honestly haven't a clue what's going on, so we need to get out of here, pronto."

"Sure," said Clarice, "just let me grab my things."

--

FBI Motorcade, approaching Clarice's Hotel (about twenty blocks away)

After an armed escort to the motorcade, Clarice and Vaughn were away, in a motorcade, speeding along the streets of Chicago.

"I'm so tired," said Clarice, "and I'm sorry, I so don't want to whinge and whine. It's just so horrible."

"I can only imagine what you've been going through," replied Vaughn, "to me, it doesn't seem to be real sometimes. Like someone made it up, it's so crazy. But here we are."

"Yes. Here we are."

_BANG_

With a roar, a whoosh, and a horrific explosion, the car in front violently exploded, sending it six feet into the air, before turning over, and crashing to the road on it's roof.

"Shit!" screamed Clarice, as the motorcade slammed to a halt. Clarice and Vaughn dived out the car, guns outstretched. Seeing the target (and fervently hoping to miss the screaming civilians) opened fire, on the man in the green jacket, who was holding a portable rocket launcher. The guards, taking Clarice and Vaughn's lead, followed suit, opening fire on the man.

He fell to the ground, blood splattering from his mouth, but the nervous guards kept firing rounds into the corpse until Vaughn had to yell at them to stop.

"Son of a bitch," he groaned, as they approached the body.

"You know him?" said Clarice.

"That's Terrence Eddings. He used to be one of us. Bloody hell, I used to work for him. Why him?"

"I don't know anymore," whispered Clarice, "this just makes less and less sense.

--

The now terrified guards, insisted they escort the two back to the hotel, where they could stay in relative security for the night. Clarice and Vaughn were only too glad to agree.

--

The Hotel

"Yes, two club sandwiches, and two bottles of beer, please. Yes, thank you."

Vaughn looked up from the file he was studying, to Clarice who had just put the phone down.

"The food will be here in five minutes."

"Nice and prompt," Vaughn replied, "I really am hungry."

"Join the club. Club Sandwich. Ha!" said Clarice. Vaughn just looked at her blankly.

"Sorry," said Clarice, "I never was much good at telling jokes."

"I can tell," muttered Vaughn, not meaning to be rude, but couldn't exactly let it slide.

Thankfully, the awkward silence was shattered by a knocking on the door.

"Room service."

"Really prompt!" said Vaughn, opening the door to let the man in. The man nodded in gratitude, and pulled the small cart with him, two silver-covered dishes on top. The man closed the door, and pushed the cart forward a little.

"So," said Vaughn, but he was brutally interrupted by the room-service man, who swiftly hit Vaughn's windpipe, collapsing it. Vaughn fell to the floor, choking and coughing, totally unable to breath.

Dennis Hyde, the leader of the Chosen, knocked Clarice backwards, and she stumbled on the previously positioned cart, falling backwards to the bed, her arms above her head and useless.

"Murderer," Hyde whispered, in his clipped British accent, "I've waited a long time for this." He swiftly drew his gun, and aimed it at her head.

Then he pulled the trigger…

**To Be Concluded**

**Note:** But hopefully, you won't have to wait too long! I'm hoping to publish the final three chapters of A Hole In The Head, Her Burning Heart, and this in twenty days time. Which is quite a deadline, as I still have quite a bit of HBH to finish, and I don't want to rush it. However it would be nice to finish this story exactly a year after it's start. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it, and please review.

**Disclaimer: **Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page (that includes links) without my express written permission. Thankyou!

**JetNoir**


	8. Sunday

**Note:** I find it difficult to believe, but this story was begun exactly one year ago today - along with A Hole In The Head, and Her Burning Heart: my three sequels to Lessons. Now, Hole and this are finished, sadly Her Burning Heart isn't quite, but that will be done soon. What happens next, I'll explain at the bottom, but for now, the conclusion; which contains violent scenes.

**DAYNIGHT**

**a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir**

SUNDAY

Over the course of the past seven days, FBI Special Agent Clarice Starling has been shot, kidnapped, assaulted, tortured, almost blown up twice, and forcibly imprisoned during the light of day.

Her crime? Murder.

But legal murder, killings, in protection of her self, and others.

Her best friend is dead, yet her memory sticks to Clarice like glue, reminding her constantly of her failure. To protect her friend, or to discover she was in fact a serial murderer.

Behind the mask, Clarice is close to losing her mind.

Vivid hallucinations fuse with terrible reality, as she tries to stay alive.

In Chicago, there are five member of a domestic terrorist cell, called 'The Chosen'. Their aim: to destroy Starling. Four are dead.

One is not. And now, as the hands of the clock quiver between the last day, and the next, he stands over Starling; the barrel of his pistol pointed at her head.

He pulled the trigger…

(n i g h t)

Three seconds past midnight.

But it wasn't Dennis Hyde's gun.

Smoke blew from the barrel of Vaughn's pistol, as Hyde fell forwards, a large gaping hole now present in his shoulder. He screamed in pain, and pushed him self backwards, in an effort to regain his equilibrium. However, he had to compromise - his gun, or his balance.

The gun flew forward, and landed next to Clarice's torso. She lowered her hands, and picked it up. Before she could point it at Hyde, he had fled from the door, and she was aiming at fresh air.

"You okay?" said Clarice, still aiming at the door.

"I'm fine," said Vaughn, "Clarice, get after him."

Clarice nodded, and stepped out into the corridor, gingerly checking it before she went. It was empty, but she heard screams coming from the right. So, guess which way she went.

She paused at the corner, and peered around. Hyde was waiting for her, and fired two shots. Clarice threw herself backwards, and the corner of the corridor beside her disintegrated, plaster flying everywhere.

Where had he got the gun from?

Picking herself upwards, keeping her gun outstretched, she leapt round the corner, firing at the point Hyde had been. He was running down the corridor, but one of Clarice's bullets hit him, and he fell to the ground, twisting in mid-air, until he came to rest, laying on his back. He twitched, his hand reaching for his fallen gun, but Clarice raced towards him, and kicked it away.

"Who do you work for?" cried Clarice, "Who is Laurence Day?"

Hyde grinned, showing bloodied teeth: "I hate to be the cliché now, Starling, but I will tell you nothing. You know that as well as I. All I have to say, is that I very much look forward to seeing you in Hell."

"You believe that you would go there?" said Clarice, but Hyde refused to answer. He closed his eyes.

Half a moment later, he lunged towards her, and his gun. Reacting instinctively, she fired, shooting him through the mouth, then two bullets found their way to his brain. It was over in a second.

The Chosen in Chicago were gone.

Clarice remained, neck-deep in blood and death and hate and pain.

In Hell.

--

Wheezing heavily, still deeply winded, Vaughn had managed to make his way to Clarice. He looked down at the body of Hyde, and sighed:

"Clarice. It's over, Clarice. It's finished."

"Is it?" asked Clarice, "I'm beginning to wonder if it's even begun. This Laurence Day is still at large, and…Vaughn, it never ends. Ever."

Vaughn shook his head: "I hope you find peace, Clarice, I truly do. Backup's on the way, and hotel Security will guard the body. This floors been evacuated. Look, come away. You'll do no more good here."

Clarice nodded, and allowed herself to be led away, looking back one last time.

--

Later, with darkness still cloaking the city.

Clarice had been debriefing Director Tunberry for the past half-hour, and her throat was getting dry. Tunberry had been as polite as always, but there was something wrong. He was hesitant, unsure.

"Director…what is it? What's the matter?"

"_Clarice, I hate to put this on you. Two thing are dreadfully wrong. It's Agent Irons, Clarice."_

"Elias? What about him?"

"_He's dead."_

"What?"

"_He died several days ago, the same with Agent Slater. It was Doctor Lecter, Clarice. He killed them both."_

"Why the hell wasn't I told?"

"_Because you were being pursued by a domestic terrorist group, and I didn't want you being distracted any more."_

"That, Director, is unacceptable."

"_I know…and I'm truly sorry. The second thing. Clarice, we want you to go to New York. There's been a murder, absolutely horrific. Occurred a few hours ago, the body's just been discovered. We haven't had time for forensics to be analysed, but we had a phone call, placed to Emergency Services. We still awaiting a match, but it mentions you Clarice. This so-called Witness wants you, and only you to protect him."_

"Where is this Witness now?"

"_We have no idea. We're still trying to locate him."_

"When do you want me?"

"_We've booked a flight, late this afternoon. I'll get the Chicago Field Office to pick up your tickets. I'm sorry, Clarice, I know you need a break. We need you to do this."_

"I understand," said Clarice, coldly, "I'll call when I land."

--

How could it have come to this? As soon as one thing was over, another began. Bile, and fear rose in her, for she was scared. Broken down as she was, she felt terrified of what might come.

Looking out of the window, she saw an orange glow along the horizon.

Sol.

Dawn had come, on this miserable Sunday, the first she had seen for some time.

Looking around, a realisation dawned on her. The Chosen were gone. Their ultimatum, was now invalid.

Turning from her room, she ran out the door, and down the many stairs of the hotel.

--

(d a y)

Walking through the lobby, she swept back her long hair, and smiled. They hadn't taken the light of day away from her. She pushed open the doors, and stood, at the doorway to the Hotel, outside, in the fresh air.

Walking into the sun, she found that she was safe. At least, for now.

--

Chicago Airport

It is late afternoon, and Clarice had packed many hours ago. Her "vacation" had ended as quietly as it had begun. Shame about the mass death and destruction in between.

"Thankyou," said Clarice, looking at District Director Vaughn, "I owe you my life. Well, several times over!"

"That doesn't matter," said Vaughn, "but please just be careful. It is foolhardy of the Bureau to place you again in the field so soon. I would hate for anything to happen to you."

They shook hands gladly, both parties forever changed.

"Goodbye," said Clarice softly. Vaughn just nodded, put his hands in his pockets, and walked away, to his car.

Clarice turned, and picked up her bags, heading towards check-in. It would be many hours before her plane left, but she had wanted to be early. Just in case.

--

Unknown Location; New York

The room was in utter darkness. The only indication that there was somebody here, was the quiet sound of breathing.

The click of a telephone receiver being picked up sounded, and numbers were dialled. The caller was ringing Chicago. When there was a reply, a beep sounded…an electronic filter being switched on.

"You know why I am calling?" the harsh metallic voice said.

"_Of course," said the masculine voice on the other end, "I'm not an idiot, you know. Is New York ready?"_

"Yes. As you will be aware, the first murder was committed last night. The next will be tonight. Is she in the air?"

"_If you are referring to Clarice Starling, then she should be in the plane right now," said FBI District Director Vaughn, "the two minor players are with you now, and the three agents you sent here are all dead. Just as you predicted."_

"Necessary sacrifices," said Laurence Day, the leader of the Chosen, "and now the moth is flying towards the flame."

The leader put the receiver down, and sighed heavily. The events that had been put into motion would be difficult.

The war was coming; and the Day was determined to win.

--

High Above Chicago

Clarice Starling leaned her bruised, burnt and battered body back in her chair, her eyelids slowly closing. The sun would set soon enough and she had to be ready for it.

As she looked out of the window, onto the city of Chicago, the last thing she saw before losing consciousness, were that dark clouds had begun to gather…

**fini**

**Note:** Finished. I am both extremely glad, and extremely sad to write that. Yet, it means one thing: we're merging! That is, as soon as Her Burning Heart is finished. Then I suppose, I would like to take a small break from Hannibal fan fiction, to work on some of my other (rather neglected) pieces. Then, I will be back with the concluding story of the series, set in New York. As to this story, I would like to thank: Penelope S. Cartwright, Nanci, EvilspyAchacia, doctor katy, and Starling Clarice M. for all your help and support with this story. I hope you enjoyed it, and please review!

**Disclaimer: **Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page (that includes links) without my express written permission. Thankyou!

**JetNoir**


End file.
